


Rewards

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Master has some fun with a very submissive and sentimental Ten in the bondage chair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewards

The handprint blooms bright red on the Doctor’s face, fingers and thumb outlined with startling clarity just under his cheekbone. The Master cups the Doctor’s chin in his hand and murmurs, “Going to be a good boy?” The Doctor says nothing, does nothing; words have failed him, but he can’t move his head. “I asked you a question,” the Master says. “Answer it. Are you going to be a good boy?”

The Doctor struggles to find his voice, and finally finds it hiding in a deep pit behind the lump in his throat. “Y-yes,” he says.  
  
Smack. Another handprint, almost exactly over the first, and the Doctor’s eyes water a little with the sting of it. “Yes what?” the Master says.  
  
"Yes, Master. I’ll—" (He swallows, sees the Master’s eyes follow the bob of his Adam’s apple.) "—I’ll be a good boy."  
  
"Just like old times," the Master says, his voice soft, almost… cooing. "Be a good boy, now." His face draws closer and closer, and then he’s all lips and teeth and tongue against the Doctor’s mouth. By the time he pulls away, the Doctor’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, his lips flushed and swollen. The Master considers them carefully, tracing their shape with his thumb, then says, "A little more, I think. Do you want more, Doctor?"  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"Beg."  
  
The Doctor takes a shuddering breath. He’s done this so many times, but somehow he never loses the hesitance, the trembling anticipation, the fear of doing it wrong, of it not being enough. “Please, Master,” he says. “Please. More.”  
  
"More what?"  
  
"More, Master, more. More kisses. Please give me more. I want your mouth, Master, please. I need it. I need _you_. Please, Master, please, more, need your mouth, need kisses, need to taste you,” he says, and now it’s easier, coming out in a rush. “Want to feel your lips, taste them, your tongue, like you’re fucking my mouth with yours, Master, Master, please. _Please_.”  
  
The Master obliges, and once again his lips move forcefully, possessive, biting-tugging-nipping with his teeth, and the Doctor moans. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, he’s wondering what the other Masters are up to, but he can’t force himself to care about the copies when the genuine article’s tongue is approaching the back of his throat. He’s just starting to wonder how the Master can do this for so long, since his own respiratory bypass is starting to give out and the edges of his vision are darkening, when the Master pulls away, and his breath is hot against the Doctor’s face as he again traces swollen lips with a fingertip. “Mm, that should do, I think,” he says. “I’ll be requiring the use of your mouth, so I thought I’d get you nice and ready.”  
  
"My mouth?" the Doctor says, squirming hopefully. "Are you going to let me out of this thing?"  
  
"Hardly," the Master says. "And…" He slaps again, not the face this time, but the sensitive inside of the Doctor’s thigh, dangerously close to the increasingly large bulge in the front of his trousers. "That’s for speaking out of turn," he says, and slaps the same spot again, "and that’s for not using my name."  
  
"Sorry, Master," the Doctor says, eyes stinging at the pain. He’s rewarded with another kiss, a quick one with enough force to bruise.  
  
"Such a good boy," the Master murmurs, ruffling the Doctor’s hair fondly. "Thank me for punishing you."  
  
"Thank you for punishing me, Master," the Doctor says. No hesitation. It’s easier now, it always is. "I was bad."  
  
"Yes, you were. But now you’ll be good, won’t you?"  
  
"Yes, Master. I’ll be good." He answers the Master’s smile with his own, and cries out in surprise as the back of the chair falls away and comes to a sudden, painful stop. It takes him a moment to realize what happened—the chair must have a hinge somewhere in the back, allowing the portion that secures the upper body to move, and now his torso is almost parallel to the floor, his arms pointing toward the skylight in the ceiling, chest and thighs nearly forming a straight line. He looks down himself and whines at the sight of his erection straining against the front of his trousers. He wants to struggle, but the chair’s balance feels a little precarious, and he’s afraid it will tip over if he does.

The Master’s standing behind him now, next to his head, and the Doctor flushes as the Master undoes the strap over his chest so that he can open his suit jacket, undo the knot on his tie, and (growing impatient now) yank his shirt open. Buttons pop off and bounce, _click-click-click_ , on the floor. Having exposed the Doctor’s torso, the Master replaces the strap, then moves south, unceremoniously opening the Doctor’s trousers and yanking them down to his knees, allowing the Doctor’s cock to twitch, untouched, up to his stomach, leaking precome. “Now, dearest Doctor,” the Master murmurs. “Would you care to suck my cock?”

"Yes, Master," the Doctor says immediately. "Yes. Please. _Yes._ ”

"No biting, now," the Master says, and leans on the chair. The Doctor jumps instinctively as the chair leans further and further back, and he thinks surely this is low enough, but the Master keeps pushing it down until the Doctor’s precome is slowly sliding down his abdomen toward his ribcage and the chair is tilted all the way back, sitting on two wheels and the headrest, which is still keeping the Doctor’s head strapped firmly in place. The Doctor watches, upside-down, as the Master strips efficiently, biting back moans and small noises as each new expanse of skin is revealed.

"Master, I missed you," the Doctor says, his voice small and strained. The Master smiles in reply, getting down on his hands and knees and giving the Doctor an upside-down kiss. The Doctor moans into it, thinking that right now the Master’s arse has to be in the air, wants to touch and squeeze and kiss, but he’s not allowed. So many things he wants, and he’s not allowed. "Master, please," the Doctor says. He needs something, needs the Master, needs him _now_ , and suddenly the Master’s cock is at his lips and his chest _aches_ with gratitude. He thanks the Master in the only way he can, taking the Master’s cock as deeply as he can into his throat, cheeks hollowed around it, taking it deeper and deeper as the Master thrusts into his mouth, heavy balls brushing against the Doctor’s face.

"Good boy," the Master tells him, and he’s rewarded with a gentle, teasing stroke of his erection, a near-painful squeeze of his balls; fingers worm their way between his closed legs and press into his perineum, his arsehole; and, finally, after long minutes, when his jaw aches as much as his straining cock, the Doctor is rewarded with his Master’s come. He chokes slightly, coughing, but swallows it all, and then the Master _licks_ from the head of his cock to his balls, and he soars over the edge, held there by the Master’s fingers teasing his nipples. The world is a sea of white, it rocks and spins him in pleasure, in pain; anything could happen now, and he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t even care.

When he’s next aware of himself, he’s upright again, and a collection of Masters is cleaning his own come off of him with their tongues. “Thank you, Master,” the Doctor says, and he means it, watching as two of them start wrestling for control of a large dollop of come on his chin.

The others look up at him, grinning, and say in chilling unison, “Oh, we aren’t done with you yet.”

The Doctor distinctly feels his arsehole clench and relax again. This is going to be a long night.


End file.
